


Somewhere Between Hell and the Sky

by cleflink



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Canon Related, Impala is totally the brains of the operation, M/M, Pining, Possessive Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Sam's Terrible Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 21:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3223658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleflink/pseuds/cleflink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since their mom was killed in a dragon attack on the city of Lawrence, Sam and Dean have earned their living as dragon hunters. It's a decent enough gig, until Sam fails to die after being doused with dragon fire and promptly starts acting strangely even by his standards. And Dean would like to help, but between the dragons apparently being very interested in Sam and Sam apparently being very not interested in Dean's help, he's not sure which problem to tackle first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere Between Hell and the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2014 round of [spn_reversebang](http://spn_reversebang.livejournal.com). The title is from the absolutely gorgeous song [Silver Islet](http://poorangus.com/track/494043/silver-islet) by Poor Angus.
> 
> A massive thank you to my lovely artist [soserendipity](http://soserendipity.livejournal.com), who contended with a brutal lack of free time to create the art for this challenge. I think we were both perhaps too patient with each other, my dear, but it all worked out in the end! Her submission caught my imagination immediately, so much so that I forsook my familiar realm of J2 for opportunity to write for it. All of the art she has created is beautiful and unique, and I only hope that my SPN-fu is sufficient to do it some justice with the story. Go and see and leave her much love at her [Art Post](http://soserendipity.livejournal.com/35485.html)!
> 
> Thanks ever and always to [dugindeep](http://dugindeep.livejournal.com) for cracking the whip and also helping with the problem-solving stages of this one.
> 
> And thanks to the mods for running this challenge and also for their patience with our scheduling mix up!

'And then the dragons came' was such a stupid way to start a story.

Dean spared an eye roll for the idiot in the corner yammering on about the 'good old pre-dragon days', most of his attention focused on the map he had spread out across the bar. He and Sam had been working jobs pretty much continuously for the last month and this was the first opportunity that Dean had had to update it. That was much more important than listening to some guy's sob story about how his life had been ruined by the Dragon Harrowing. Join the fucking club.

His hands were rock steady as he carefully laid new squares of paper on top of the two settlements that had been destroyed since the last time they'd been up this way. The glue was thick, pungent stuff that Sam had mixed up from an old recipe for book binding paste; it stuck like nobody's business and saved Dean the grief of trying to get around with a map that was little more than a mass collection of crossed-out settlements with some trees and lakes thrown in for good measure. It meant that his map was a vaguely grotesque patchwork of paper scraps, but at least he could read it. And a reliable map was a vital necessity with the life they led.

The bartender slid a glass of beer over to him and Dean shifted his map to the side to avoiding staining it. "Thanks," he said, and took a drink, hardly noticing the bitter taste.

Beer was pretty much guaranteed to taste like dragon piss no matter where in the country Dean was, but this was slightly more tolerable piss than he'd been exposed to recently. It was a fairly reliable sign of a well-established settlement when the alcohol tasted of more than just turpentine since the smaller places never had the stability to set up their own distilleries - or the resources to trade for the decent stuff. 

"That accurate?" the bartender asked, gesturing with a dishrag to the map.

"As accurate as it can be," Dean said, with no small amount of pride. "Why?"

"Heard that Reliance got overrun," the bartender said. "Coupl'a months back."

"Well," Dean said, moving his hands across to tap at the date he'd written beside the settlement of Reliance, "I was there six weeks ago and everything was still standing. Can't say if it's still true, but I did take out a couple whites while I was there. The place was dragon-free when I left."

The bartender nodded. "Thanks," he said, and left Dean to his own devices without another word. Dean was hoping that he'd be willing to give him his next drink on the house in trade; information was good barter material.

He ran careful fingers across the new patches, testing the dampness of the glue. Still too wet. Dean sighed and took a swallow of his beer, attention skipping disinterestedly around the half-empty bar. 

In the corner, the storyteller was still going on about boom boxes and escalators and other stuff that hadn't existed for a quarter of a century and probably never would again. Dean honestly couldn't see the point. Unless aliens landed, abducted every winged lizard on the planet and fucked off again, there wasn't any way that the dragons were ever going to be gone. So why dwell on what wasn't coming back? 

Dean eyeballed Mr. Storyteller. He was only maybe a decade older than Dean himself, which meant that he would have been a teenager when the Harrowing had happened. Old enough to remember what they'd lost, but young enough not to have given up hope. Moron.

Dean knew what he'd lost, too. His childhood home, with his mom still inside, burned up by dragonfire in one of the first attacks. The destruction of Lawrence had been early enough in the Harrowing that it could have been the very first attack, actually, but since most of the world's communications hadn't survived those first horrifying months, they'd probably never know. Not like it mattered, anyway. These days, everywhere was just as bad as everywhere else.

That first year had been hell on Earth. Dean had been too young to really understand, but looking back now it was impressive that he and Sam had both coped as well as they had. Dad had dragged them all over the country, looking for somewhere safe to settle down. No such place existed, but it had taken the world a while to come to terms with that.

They'd seen the horrors first hand. Everywhere Dad took them, they saw the devastation caused by the dragons. The big cities went first: New York, LA, Houston, Philly. The smaller cities were quick to follow, although more people tended to escape because they'd had the big cities as object lessons of what was going to happen if they stayed. 

Wyoming was literally wiped off the map; by the time the dust settled there wasn't a single person alive in the entire state. Even now, the area was considered dragon territory. It was more than a man's life was worth to go anywhere near it. 

The world regressed a thousand years over the course of a few months. The 9-to-5 went the way of the dodo as jobs became obsolete with the sudden increased challenge in staying alive. Settlements became smaller, more defensible. Technology still existed, but the unreliability of the energy grids almost made it more trouble than it was worth to rely on it. Same with cars, which got to contend with ruined and overgrown roads on top of the scarcity and expense of gasoline.

It was, from what Dean had gathered from books and listening to older people complain, something of a mix between the wild west and the zombie apocalypse. Just with dragons. Even now, over two decades after the Harrowing, mankind was nowhere close to regaining his status as the alpha species on the planet. They'd managed to eke out a sort of equilibrium, enough for schools to reopen and people to put down real roots - although everyone had to be pragmatic about the fact that it only took one irritated dragon in the wrong place to pull all those roots right up again - but it wasn't anything that should make Mr. Storyteller believe that things were going to get any better than this.

And it sucked out loud, but Dean had made peace with it years ago. Besides, if all of the dragons spontaneously vanished one day, Dean would be out of a job. And it wasn't like dragon hunting involved a lot of transferable skills.

Judging that the glue was dry enough, Dean put down his drink and set about sketching in the new bits of terrain: ruins instead of Ulysses and forests instead of New Iowa. 

The door opened just as Dean finished recording the dates of each discovery and he looked up to see the outline of a tall, broad-shouldered man silhouetted against the sun. The ambient noise dimmed slightly into a wary, respectful sort of silence, and Dean tried not to beam like a proud parent.

Dean raised one hand in a half-wave. Sam caught his eye and started across the room towards him, moving with the trained alertness of a hunter and a competent, predatory grace that he'd been born with.

Somehow, even in the denim and leathers of a dragon hunter, Sam still managed to look a little bit like a scientist. Dean wasn't sure quite how that worked considering the fact that Sam had given up on that particular pipe dream nearly four years ago and looked like he could fuck someone's shit up six ways from Sunday even without the twin blades strapped to his back, but Dean's brother had never been particularly interested in making sense.

"We all set?" Dean asked, kicking out the stool next to him for Sam to sit.

Sam nodded. "Provisions are all stowed and I managed to trade one of our small knives for a box of ammo for your rifle." 

"Nice. That deserves a drink." Dean looked around to try and catch the bartender's attention.

"It's mid-afternoon, Dean," Sam said, with a sigh.

"And we killed a dragon this morning. We're entitled."

Sam made an unimpressed face at Dean's glass. "Seems more like a punishment than a reward."

"Hey, don't knock it till you try it," Dean said, taking an ostentatious gulp of his beer. "Anywhere in particular you want to visit? We haven't got another job lined up yet so we might as well just pick a direction and go."

"Hmm." Sam leaned over Dean's shoulder to look at the map, eyes flicking briefly over the new additions before moving on. "We could always g-"

The banshee wail of a siren cut through the air, and Dean felt the entire bar freeze in horrified shock.

Raid siren. 

_Dragon._

"Oh, God no," someone in the room said, breaking the stillness with the force of a sledgehammer. Between one heartbeat and the next, everyone was on their feet and surging for the closest exit, pushing and shoving and yelling as if it would get them somewhere safe any faster.

As if there was such a thing as safe these days.

"What are you doing?" Sam demanded, when Dean didn't bother to join the group panic attack. "Dean, we have to go!"

Dean waved one hand at the landslide of people trying to jam through the front door. "You want to go through all them, you be my guest. I've got time to finish my drink."

Sam shook his head. "Unbelievable." He reached over before Dean could react, snagged the glass out of his hand, and drained the whole thing in two long swallows. "There," he said, slamming the glass down on the bar with a decidedly vindictive air. "Can we go now?"

"Dude, you suck. I was enjoying that."

"No, you were being an ass. Now move before I leave yours here."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Easy there, Mr. Alpha Dog. I'm going." He stood, rolling up his map and tucking it back into its case before turning his attention to the challenge of getting out of the building. Both doors were obvious no-gos thanks to the number of people blocking them, and he didn't see much point in taking the stairs up to the second floor. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the narrow window beside the bar. "Think you and your monster shoulders can fit?"

Sam gave him the finger, picked up his barstool and threw it without ceremony through the window. The sound of the glass breaking was all but inaudible beneath the din of the idiots at the doors and the unceasing whine of the siren. Not that it mattered much anyway since the bartender had been one of the first to flee and Dean doubted very much that anyone else gave a damn about what they did to the décor.

It was a tight squeeze for Sam to get through the window, but they'd got out of worse situations and Sam managed it without too much difficulty. Dean followed after, wincing as a shard of glass still clinging to the window frame nicked his cheek. 

They emerged onto a narrow side-street and paused for a moment to get their bearings. The air was thick with screams and the smell of burning wood. 

"So what's the plan?" Sam asked, as they angled themselves towards the main road.

"The plan is to get the hell out of Dodge. The dragon's gonna be distracted with all the screaming food, so it shouldn't be hard."

"You want to leave?" Sam said, sounding surprised. "Dean, these people need our help."

Dean snorted. "To deal with a rogue dragon in the middle of town? I doubt it. There are guards. I'm sure they've got enough skill to handle one angry-" they rounded the corner and Dean's words died in his throat.

Three dragons. There were three dragons.

And they were greens.

"Holy shit," Sam said, which Dean thought summed up the situation quite nicely. "Greens? In a city?"

It hadn't taken the world long to figure out that not all dragons were part of the campaign to eat the entire human race in fifty years or bust. The truly friendly breeds were few and far between, but there was only a handful of colours that went out of their way to attack humans. The rest mostly stuck to staking out their territory and staying in it. Which sucked hardcore when a dragon decided that its territory included land that already had a human settlement on it, but it meant that most settlements didn't have to worry about dragon raids from anything except the most vicious breeds.

Which was why the scene they were looking at didn't make one goddamn bit of sense. 

Greens were one of the largest breeds of dragons, which unfortunately didn't slow the bastards down nearly as much as humanity would have hoped. They could fly, like all dragons, but restrained themselves mostly to gliding over short distances. Their scales varied from emerald to darkest jade and they had a large crest, nearly as high as Dean was tall, that traced the length of their spines from forehead to tail tip. They also breathed fire, of course, because all the big nasties did that. 

Dean had been figuring for a white, maybe a red if they were really unlucky, but greens?

The street was filled with cries and fleeing people. Several of the buildings were already on fire - there was no way a Podunk little place like this could afford to put up concrete buildings, so all the superstructures were made of wood - and Dean could see at least four crumpled bodies that weren't going to be getting up again. 

"We can't leave them like this."

One look at Sam's face made it clear that nothing Dean could say would change his mind. Not that Dean disagreed with him - saving people was what they did - but he didn't mind admitting, at least to himself, that he really wasn't looking forward to this. Greens, fuck. Did this settlement not post sentries for God's sake?

"Someone had better be planning on paying us for this," Dean sighed, mostly because it was expected. "Bullets are expensive." 

"Learn how to use a blade," Sam suggested. Light flashed off his long knives as he pulled them free.

"Hey, you do your thing, He-Man, I'll do mine." Dean pointed down the street. "There's a house with a flat roof a few doors down; I should be able to get a clear shot from there."

Sam smirked. "Tell me again how you had no intention of staying to help? And yet have already scoped out the rooftops?"

"Shut up," Dean said, and headed off to the sound of Sam's laughter. Bitch.

He scared the crap out of a huddling family when he burst into their house, but they were happy enough to get out of his way when they figured out what he wanted. It was child's play to haul himself up onto the roof, which wasn't quite as flat as it had looked from the ground, but that just gave him something to hide behind when one of the dragons swooped close enough overhead that its tail nearly took his head off.

"Shit!" Dean ducked, and hunkered down low. He unslung his rifle in one easy movement and set it to his shoulder, hands working automatically to secure the scope while he considered his options. 

The one that'd just done the fly-by was probably the easiest. Sam was taking care of the one nearest the bar and, even though Dean was perfectly capable of getting a hit on the third, it made more sense to eliminate the one that was close enough to eat his face if he made it mad.

The whoosh of a fireball exploded through the air; Dean ducked automatically and squeezed off a shot while buildings burned behind him.

The bullet barely grazed the dragon's side, which was still more than enough to draw the dragon's attention away from the fleeing people it was trying to barbeque. 

"Yeah, that's right, fugly," Dean shouted, as the dragon rounded towards him. "Come and get me!" 

That earned him a snarl and a mouthful of very sharp teeth bared in his direction. Dean held his position, unflinching in the face of several tons of dragon heading his way. The dragon's wings snapped wide as it threw itself into the air, flames gathering in its maw.

Dragonhide was tough, though not impenetrable. The biggest thing, Dean knew, was to make each shot count. And if there was one thing he was good at, it was marksmanship.

Breathing out, Dean squeezed the trigger once, twice. The first bullet ripped through the thin membrane of the dragon's right wing; the second buried itself in the metacarpal joint. 

The dragon's pained bellow made Dean's ears ring. The green banked, damaged wing refusing to support its weight, and crashed headlong into the dirt. Dean dashed to the edge of the roof to finish it off, and was surprised to find several guards and civilians already taking care of it. 

Most civilians, in Dean's experience, tended to ascribe to the 'run and hide' school of dealing with dragon attacks, but apparently some of the ones around here were made of sterner stuff. Good. It meant that they might just get through this, after all.

Dean probably should have turned his attention to the farthest dragon now - anyone at that end of the settlement was dealing with it on their own - but he didn't bother pretending that Sam wasn't his first priority. It was the work of moments to resettle himself in a crouch and mount his rifle on his shoulder. He brought his eye to the scope and focused on the fight.

Just in time to watch Sam vanish beneath a blast of dragonfire ten feet tall.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, automatic and useless.

He half-shimmied, half-fell off the roof, a huge ball of panic taking up all the space in his head. 

He paid no mind to the weakly-thrashing dragon scarce feet away from him; all of Dean's attention was fixed on crossing the distance between him and Sam as fast as humanly possible. Only the discipline of years of Dad's training kept him holding onto his gun as he raced headlong down the deserted street and to hell with keeping out of sight.

 _He was gonna be okay_ , the desperate voice inside his head lied. _He had to be okay._

Movement flashed in the corner of his eye and Dean rolled aside just in time to avoid getting bitten in half by the dragon that had hit Sam. It snapped again, teeth the length of Dean's arm coming far too close for comfort.

Dean officially didn't have time for this shit. 

A single look was enough to show that Sam and his blades had already done a number on the dragon: it was bleeding from multiple wounds, and there was a mass of blood and emptiness where its left eye should have been. 

That was where Dean aimed. He was much too close for the sniper scope to be useful, but the green was more than big enough a target that he wasn't worried. Dean ducked another snap and, when the dragon reared back to spit a fireball at him, took aim and fired in a single, smooth motion. 

The back of the dragon's head exploded in a mass of blood as the bullet went in one side and out the other; at any other time, Dean would have been appreciatively grossed out. He dodged around the green's lashing tail, careless of the shockwave that shuddered through the ground when the beast collapsed. 

Sam was lying crumpled in the lee of a burning building, limp and lifeless.

"Sam!" Dean scrambled forward, tripped over his own feet and kept running. 

_Has to be okay. Can't be okay. Sam, Sam, Sammy…_

Sam wasn't dead.

Dean staggered to a shocked halt, chest heaving with more than just adrenaline as he looked down at what should have been the burnt-out husk of his little brother.

But Sam just looked like… Sam. His skin was smooth and unmarked, and his chest was moving in a slow but steady rhythm. His clothes seemed to have taken the brunt of the damage, and were half-crumbling off him, some bits still smoldering faintly. But even dragon armour couldn't block a direct blast like that and, even if it could, Sam's fucking head should have been burnt to cinders, his hands, the hollow of his throat.

Fuck's sake, Sam's hair wasn't even singed. And he had a whole lot of hair to burn. 

For a wild moment Dean thought he'd imagined it, that his eyes and the distance had been playing tricks on him. But the dirt that Sam was lying on was glass-slick and shiny, proof beyond a doubt that it had been melted and reforged in the heat of dragonfire. Nothing else burned as hot. Dean knew that firsthand, as the burn on his left shoulder could attest.

Something exploded behind him, accompanied by the distinctive bellow of a pissed-off dragon, and Dean jolted into action. He dropped down at Sam's side and gripped him carefully by the shoulder.

"Sam," he breathed, giving him a shake. "Come on, open your eyes."

Sam stirred. "D'n?" he slurred. His head lolled blindly in Dean's direction and Dean noticed a patch of blood at his temple. Must've cracked his head when he fell.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

"Hot," Sam managed. He sounded a little muzzy, which immediately made Dean worry that he had a concussion. "The dragons?"

"Dead," Dean said immediately, which might even have been true. It was probably at least two thirds true, anyway. "Open your eyes for me, Sam," he said. 

Sam's eyelashes fluttered and Dean leaned in close to check their dilation, only to feel his heart try to stop when his worried gaze was met by a pair of reptilian yellow eyes with slitted pupils.

Dragon eyes.

Sam blinked, and his eyes were their normal hazel again. 

Dean firmly ignored the sick sense of unease inside him.

"We're getting out of here," Dean decided. He looped the strap of his gun lengthwise across his torso to free up his hands, then reached out to help Sam to his feet. 

Sam's skin was hot under Dean's fingers, too hot, but he should have been flambé at this point and Dean was going to take his victories where he could find them. "Come on, Sammy. We're wasting daylight."

"Thought you wanted to get paid," Sam mumbled.

"Consider this our good deed for the day. Move your ass."

Dean pointed them northwards, away from where he'd last seen the third, maybe-not-dead dragon. 

It went against nearly everything in him to leave without making sure it was dead, but he didn't know what the hell had just happened and he didn't want to risk hanging around in case someone else had seen Sam's impossible failure to die. Hopefully the civilians could handle one dragon.

And if not, well, they'd swing by again in six months or so and see if Dean had to erase another settlement from his map.

Getting out of Fortitude was dead easy, even with Sam still wobbly from the crack to the head. The streets were thoroughly deserted once they got away from the main drag and, even if they hadn't been, Dean doubted that many civilians had the stones to try and force two heavily armed dragon hunters to stay if they didn't want to.

Impala was waiting for them a half mile outside of Fortitude: standard operating procedure when they went into settlements. It was easier just to avoid the complications that inevitably sprang up when civilians saw their means of transportation.

Dean pushed into the densely-packed copse of trees where they'd left her - the forests had been one thing that came back with a vengeance after the collapse of urban living - doing his best not to look like he was holding the branches for Sam to pass through behind him.

"Don't be such a mother hen," Sam said. He'd regained much of his equilibrium on the walk and was back to sounding like Dean's ungrateful little brother again.

Just for that, Dean let go of the branch he was holding too early and snickered when it whacked Sam in the chest.

"Hey!"

Dean smirked at him, then put his fingers to his lips and whistled shrilly.

The air went still as the echo faded, and Dean waited as the ground started to tremble. The trembling resolved into massive footsteps and Dean smiled when a gleaming black dragon appeared out of the trees.

"There's my girl," he said warmly. Impala trilled a happy greeting and Dean reached up to scratch under her chin. Impala nuzzled into his hand, more like a cat than a dragon.

"Are you quite finished?" Sam asked, a little peevishly. 

"Our bond is transcendent," Dean said, not turning around. "It's not her fault you don't understand."

Sam made an impatient sound. "Whatever."

Dean still remembered fondly the astonished look on Sam's face the first time Dean had arrived at Stanford on the back of a dragon. Very few of the human-friendly breeds were big enough to even consider riding, and the number of people willing to try befriending them were scanty at best. 

Personally, Dean thought they all ought to hurry up and grow a pair because he wouldn't have traded Impala for anything. She was smart and loyal and better company than Sam was sometimes. Dean didn't know of any other hunter whose preferred method of transport would happily rip apart an enemy dragon if it got too close to him. Blacks were smallish, but fast, and the view from Impala's saddle was why Dean's maps were the most accurate in America. 

Sam huffed and moaned and was generally a whiny bitch while Dean gave Impala all the attention that she'd been without while they were away, and then a little more just to irritate Sam. Eventually, though, he gave her one final pat, and turned to Sam.

"You ready to go?" he asked, with overdone innocence.

Sam gave him the look that meant he was astounded that Dean counted as a higher life form.

"Hey, I'm just asking."

"It offends me that you think you're funny." Sam came over to stand next to Dean, reaching up to check the tightness of the straps of Impala's saddle. "Where are we heading?"

Dean hesitated. "I was thinking we could go check up on Bobby," he said, keeping it casual through force of will.

Sam looked surprised. "Why?"

"What do you mean, why? Because the man's like a father to us and it's been a couple of months since we last saw him, that's why. Way to be a bad person, Sam."

"Stop it," Sam said. "We both know that's just you trying to guilt me into saying yes without asking questions."

"Anyone ever tell you you're a nosy bitch?" Dean muttered.

Amusement curled the corner of Sam's mouth. "You, mostly. Spill."

Dean gnawed at his lower lip, trying to find a good way to say 'you should be dead right now and I'm really glad you're not but that doesn't make it any less weird and creepy. Also, your eyes were doing weird things'. 

It was harder than he thought was really reasonable.

"Dean?"

"What's the last thing you remember from the fight in town?" Dean hedged.

"I-" Sam frowned. "Taking out the dragon's eye." He glanced up at Dean with a wry little grin. "And thinking that I was about to get barbequed."

Dean let out a careful breath. "It was more than just a thought."

The amusement on Sam's face faltered. "What?" 

"You did. Get barbequed, I mean. I saw it."

Sam scoffed. "Nice try, Dean." He gestured up and down his body. "Do I look like I'm on fire to you?"

"I know what I saw, Sam," Dean said. 

"Maybe you were at the wrong angle?" Sam suggested.

And really, one look at Sam's clothes should have been enough to prove that theory wrong, but Dean could understand Sam's reluctance to believe him. Hell, Dean wasn't sure he wanted to believe himself.

"Yeah, maybe," he said, after a moment. "Still, we might as well check in with Bobby anyway. Just in case."

"If you say so," Sam said, not sounding particularly bothered. "Beats flying around looking for work."

"Right, let's get moving. We're wasting daylight." 

"You're the one who's been holding us up!"

Dean ignored him in favour of hooking his hands over the edge of Impala's large oblong saddle and pulling himself up onto her back. He gathered up the reins while Sam climbed up behind him, trusting Sam to double-check that their supplies were all lashed down properly. 

"Ready, Baby?" Dean asked, stroking a fond hand down Impala's neck. She flared her wings in response and, with one powerful push of her legs, launched herself into the air.

The wind slapped sharp and cold across Dean's face as they cleared the tree line, and he squinted against the sun as he looked out at the landscape sprawling below them. There was a thick pall of smoke rising from the settlement and Dean felt a twinge of regret. 

"Shit," Sam said at his side, and Dean nodded, tilting his head so that he could see Sam in the corner of his eye. 

Sam's eyes were fixed on Fortitude, his expression somewhere between rapt and somber. The sun had threaded streaks of gold through his hair and it reminded Dean uncomfortably of the dragonfire that should have stolen Sam away from him. Sam didn't turn to meet his gaze and Dean found himself shamefully relieved; he wasn't sure what he would see if he looked at Sam's eyes right now and that scared the crap out of him. 

Firming his jaw, Dean turned his eyes and Impala away from Fortitude, heading inland.

Bobby would know what to do. Bobby always knew what to do.

Bobby wasn't home.

"Son of a bitch," Dean said, glaring at the closed door. 

It had taken them the better part of two days to get here - not a bad trip as the dragon flies but frustrating if they'd made it for no reason. Dean had to admit that it hadn't even occurred to him that Bobby wouldn't be home. It seemed wrong somehow for Bobby not to be around to help when Dean needed him.

"What now?" Sam said, after they'd wasted ten minutes banging on all the doors and windows in case Bobby was asleep or in his bunker. 

Dean didn't know. "He might just have gone into town?"

Sam was shaking his head. "All the shutters are closed," he said. "And the truck's gone."

Most people didn't bother with cars or trucks these days; it was too risky to rely on the gasoline lasting. But Bobby had been something of a survivalist nut before the world went to Hell on a dragon's back and, between the gas he'd stockpiled beforehand and the amount he'd earned as a dragon hunter since, he managed to keep himself going. 

"Son of a bitch," Dean said again. If Bobby was on a hunt, he could be gone for days. If he'd been forced to leave for some other reason, it could be a hell of a lot longer than that.

"Is it just the fire thing?" Sam asked. 

Distracted from his frowning, Dean glanced over. "What?" 

"Me not burning to death," Sam clarified. "Is that the only thing you want to talk to Bobby about? You've been acting odd since Fortitude." Sam's attention was steady and all-consuming; he always had been far more attentive to Dean's moods than Dean really appreciated.

Dean had spent the time keeping an eye on Sam, for all the difference it had made. He hadn't seen so much as a hint of yellow in Sam's eyes. Sam's body temperature was still higher than Dean appreciated, but it wasn't a fever and he didn't seem to be suffering from it. He'd maybe been a little crankier than usual, but he'd raised sulking to an art form when he was a teenager; a little bit of surliness had nothing on fourteen year-old Sam. 

So yeah, nothing that justified the uneasy feeling in Dean's gut. 

"Dean?" Sam pressed, when Dean didn't say anything.

The memory of dragon-yellow eyes flashed through Dean's mind and he shoved it determinedly away. "No, that's it." 

"Honestly, I think you're overreacting. I mean, yeah it's weird, but it doesn't seem like we need to talk to Bobby urgently."

"And what if it's some kind of new delayed action assault and you randomly catch fire in the middle of the night?" Dean demanded.

"Dean." Sam's expression was patiently amused, which Dean did not appreciate in the slightest. "It's a dragon, not a tank. They don't do upgrades." 

"You got set on _fire_ , Sam," Dean snapped. "Buried in a ten-foot tall wall of fiery death. And I'm glad you're not dead, really I am, but I don't like it when things don't die when they're supposed to."

"We can keep an ear out for Bobby," Sam offered. "And if anyone knows where he is we'll go right away. But until then, I don't think it should be our main priority."

"Oh yeah? And what is our main priority?"

Sam grinned easily. "Right now, lunch I think. And then we'll get back on the job. Come on, let's go see what Bobby's got in his cold storage."

"I still don't like it. Something weird's going on with you."

"Tell you what. If I spontaneously combust in my sleep, you have my permission to say 'I told you so'.

"You spontaneously combust and I will kick your ass," Dean said, and shifted back to give Sam enough room to pick the lock on Bobby's front door. Man had not yet created the door that could keep the Winchesters out.

Sam smirked at him, smug and amused, not a hint of anything wrong. 

It was fine, Dean told himself. Everything was totally fine.

Everything was _not_ fine.

They spent the night at Bobby's and headed out the next morning. With no real destination in mind, Dean just pointed them in a generally easterly direction and let Impala have her head.

They made their way unhurriedly from one settlement to the next, stopping periodically to look for work, ask after Bobby and get some human interaction that wasn't just with each other, not necessarily in that order. It was a familiar pattern and one that they'd been trained into while Sam was in diapers. 

Which made it all the more obvious that something wasn't right with Sam.

It was little things at first. Standing too close to Dean. A sudden penchant for getting Dean's attention by grabbing his arm or shoulder, instead of just saying his name. An increased irritableness when Dean was paying attention to Impala.

Dean didn't comment on Sam's behaviour beyond an occasional reminder for him to back the hell off when he was breathing down Dean's neck. He saw no further evidence of weird yellow eye syndrome, which was a relief, but he had no idea how much he ought to read into Sam's new attitude. 

The tipping point from watching to acting came about in Cassio, a miserable little town that offered them free room and board, along with rations for a solid fortnight, to wipe out a nest of blues. Business as usual, and blues were a walk in the park compared to most other violent dragon breeds.

Sam had been strangely distracted in the nest, seemingly more interested in the dragons' gold hoard than in killing the bastards. His fighting had been fucking flawless, though, even more than usual, so Dean left him to his random daydreaming. 

The real kicker came after they got back to Cassio. 

The night was just getting started and Dean was getting cozy with a grateful - and attractive - young lady. Things were going very well, even if he did say so himself, and Dean was just about to suggest that they relocate to her place when Sam, who'd been on the other side of the bar all night, materialized out of fucking thin air.

"Dean," he said, loudly and unexpectedly enough that the girl jumped and Dean just barely resisted the urge to do the same.

"What do you want, Sam?" Dean asked, pasting on the smile that meant 'stop cockblocking me, asshole'. "Everything good?"

Only Sam looked a little confused, as though he wasn't sure why he was cramping Dean's style, either. "I- Dean."

"That's me," Dean agreed, torn between irritation and slow-rising concern. He glanced at the girl. "Hey, have you met-"

"Julie," she supplied, her eyes skipping across the breadth of Sam's shoulders with clear approval. Luckily, most chicks tended to prefer one of them over the other - which sucked for the ones who liked Sam since Dean wasn't entirely convinced that Sam's government work hadn't required a vow of celibacy that Sam had never bothered to break - and her appreciation was more theory than practice. That she was saving for Dean.

"This is Sam," Dean said, when all Sam did was stand there like an utter tool.

"Nice to meet you," Julie said, with a charming smile. Damn, but Dean was going to enjoy himself tonight.

Except then Sam made a sound that Dean didn't know how interpret, something low and threatening that made a little trill of fear run down his spine and never mind that this was _Sam_. 

Julie's face paled.

"I, uh," she swallowed hard and said, hurriedly, "I'm going to get myself another drink."

"I can-" Dean started, moving to stand.

"No! That's, it's fine." Julie's smile was weak and absolutely nothing like the promising looks she'd been throwing him all night. "Thanks for, well, the dragon nest."

And then she was gone, hauling ass away from them like they were on fire, and Dean couldn't remember a pickup ever going so wrong in his entire fucking life. 

Irritated, Dean glanced back at Sam, but he just looked like Dean's pain in the ass little brother. And Dean damn well knew that the kid wasn't ugly enough to run from; good looks ran in the family.

But there was no denying that, whatever the hell had just gone so desperately wrong, it hadn't been anything Dean had done.

Dean scowled. "Thanks a lot, jackass. What the hell's your problem?"

Sam blinked at him expressionlessly for a long moment. Then he turned and walked straight out of the bar without a word.

Dean stared after him. What the actual fucking fuck.

"I said I was sorry, okay?" Sam scowled at Dean through the wind-tumbled fall of his hair; the fact that he looked like a disheveled sheepdog did nothing to lessen the sheer bitchiness of his expression.

"And I'm saying that's not good enough," Dean said, because the eight hours and 150 miles that had passed since Sam's 'moment' in the bar weren't nearly enough to make him ready to forgive and forget. "I mean, God damn it, Sam, I've always known you were a pain in the ass, but that was bitchy even for you."

"Don't see why you didn't just pick up some other girl," Sam muttered, practically biting off the words. "Since you're so desperate to get laid."

Dean shot a glare at Sam over his shoulder, counting on Impala to keep them heading in the right direction. She did most of the driving anyway, if he was honest.

"That's not the point, Sammy."

"Then what is?" Sam demanded, and oh yeah, he sounded pissed.

Not that Dean cared. "The _point_ is that it's not goddamn normal for my brother to be cockblocking me!"

Sam's expression shuttered. "It's not always about you, Dean," he said, in a voice that could have frozen Hell over. "You want to bang ugly chicks in the middle of back-end nowhere, you be my goddamn guest."

Dean felt his eyebrows hike up right to his hairline. "Excuse me?" 

Sam never talked about people like that. Especially not people who hadn't done a thing against him.

"Forget it," Sam muttered, ducking his head to avoid Dean's eyes. He was fidgeting with something in his lap, Dean noticed, long fingers trading it back and forth between them. 

Dean frowned.

"What's that?" he asked, and Sam's hand clamped shut, too late to hide the metallic gleam of gold peeking through his fingers.

"Is that… a piece of the dragon hoard?"

"No," Sam said and, God, but sometimes Dean didn't know how he'd managed to raise a brother who was such a shit liar.

He twisted further around, giving up all pretense of steering. "What the hell, Sam? First you're surviving dragon attacks, then you're cockblocking me for no god damn reason-"

"God, would you get over it already!"

"-and now you're stealing gold coins? Face it, there's something not right going on here."

Sam scowled. "You're overreacting because you think I ruined your booty call."

"You did ruin my booty call! And don't try to change the subject!"

"What the hell do you want from me, Dean?" Sam demanded.

"I want you to stop pretending that you're fine when it's completely fucking obvious that-"

"Dean!" Sam barked, thrusting one arm out to point over Dean's shoulder.

Dean hauled automatically on the reins, because he trusted Sam even when he didn't, and barely managed to keep from yelling when a massive gout of fire erupted through the air directly in front of them, a hand's breadth away from burning them all to a crisp. 

Impala reared back, shrieking in unhappy surprise, nearly unseating both of them.

"Fuck!" Dean swore, fighting to keep a hold of the reins without tumbling out of the saddle. Falling out of the sky was not the way he wanted to go.

"Incoming!" Sam yelled. His hands joined Dean's on the reins, arms bracketing Dean's waist as he crouched behind him to help him wrestle Impala back under control. "Bear left!"

Dean didn't stop to question it; he yanked hard on the reins, relying on Sam's steady presence at his back to keep him in place as he took them into a controlled spin. Another blast missed them by the narrowest of margins, and Dean's blood ran cold when he finally saw the dragon that was attacking them: a red. 

Reds were scary motherfuckers. Ten feet tall, with ridged backs and a whole face full of horns and frills, they might not have been the biggest dragons out there, but they were fast, clever and vicious in a way that few other colours could match. They hunted humans for sport, and were far too fond of playing with their food for Dean's liking. Cat and mouse with a red dragon was almost impossible to win.

Terrific.

The red spat another fireball at them and Dean spared a wistful thought for his rifle, strapped to the saddle and completely useless to him in this situation.

"We're sitting ducks!" Sam shouted, echoing Dean's thoughts precisely. "Can we outrun it?"

"Impala can outrun anything!" Dean shouted back, stroking his knuckles against her neck without losing his grip on the reins. "Right girl?" 

Impala barked out an agreement and put on a burst of speed, her leathery wings creaking with every powerful flap. 

The red bellowed eagerly as it gave chase; Dean would bet that, if it had had the jawbone for it, the damn thing would have been grinning with predatory delight.

"Incoming!" Sam shouted, and Dean banked to the side. 

The world lurched crazily and Dean could feel the intense heat from the fireball as it went past them. 

"Anything you can do to get it off our back?" he asked Sam, yelling to be heard over the wind and the frantic pounding of his pulse.

"Gimme a minute." Sam's weight disappeared from behind him as Dean leveled them out.

"Don't you dare fall off!" he yelled, fighting the surge of worry at the knowledge that Sam wasn't within grabbing distance.

"Don't do anything to make me fall!" Sam yelled back. And then, "three o'clock!"

Dean veered again, trusting Sam to have anchored himself to the saddle. His mind worked frantically through the local area, trying to figure out somewhere they could hide if they couldn't lose the red. The settlement of Pinnacle wasn't that far by air, but he wasn't leading a red to a settlement, no matter how fucked their situation was. The terrain below was no help either: too flat, not enough places to duck and weave. Impala could win a straight up race any day, but not if they kept having to veer to avoid-

"Seven o'clock!"

"You doing anything productive back there, Sammy?" Dean demanded, once they were clear of the fireball.

"Trying to not lose all our stuff in the process of getting to the guns!" There was a pause, and then Sam made a triumphant noise. "Got it! You need to-"

Dean never got to hear what he needed to do because the world chose that moment to explode into fire and Impala let out a shriek that was going to haunt his dreams for years.

Her left wing shuttered and stopped, the right not providing nearly enough lift to keep them airborne.

The bottom dropped out of Dean's stomach as they went from flying to falling, Impala still shrieking and her right wing flapping in panicked jerks.

"Hang on!" he yelled at Sam, doing his best to turn their tumble in a controlled dive.

The lack of forests below was suddenly helpful, if only because it meant there would be less to crash into. Dean aimed them at a field that looked mostly-flat and held on tight, lying belly-down against Impala's neck as he fought to keep them heading in the right direction.

"C'mon, baby," Dean murmured to her, his hands white-knuckled on the reins. "Come on, come on…"

A fireball exploded just behind them and Dean fought to ignore it. The ground was approaching at a frightening speed and the damage to Impala's wing meant that she kept veering to the left. Dean said a silent apology as he yanked her back on track, over and over again. 

"Brace yourself!" Dean yelled. If Sam answered, Dean didn't hear it.

They hit the ground in an explosion of dirt and torn-up grass. The impact jolted right through Dean's bones, and only his death grip on the reins kept him from getting smeared across a hundred yards of field when he was thrown from Impala's back. As it was, he nearly dislocated both shoulders and ended up in a crumpled heap several feet in advance of Impala's right foreleg, every bit of him hurting like a motherfucker.

"Sam?" he called, coughing around dust and the ache in his chest. His shoulders groaned in protest when he tried to push himself up. "Sammy!"

The ground shook with a sudden, thunderous impact, and Dean swore internally as the air around him went dark.

He swallowed hard and lifted his eyes.

The red towered above him, yellow eyes blazing. There was no way it could miss him from this distance; Dean wasn't even sure he'd be able to get to his feet before it blasted him. He had no weapons, Impala was out of commission, God only knew what had happened to Sam, and no help coming.

 _This is it_ , a panicked corner of his brain gibbered. _I'm dead._

Dean stared up (and up, and up) into the face of his own mortality, mind blank with the shock that it was going to end like this. Fire licked up from between razor teeth and Dean flinched away, eyes slamming shut.

A furious bellow split the air and Dean hunched deeper into the dirt, hyperconscious of the hammering of his heartbeat. Instead of searing pain, however, Dean was next aware of a wet tearing sound and a fine spray of dirt kicking up against his face.

He jerked his head up and something thudded in his chest when he realized that Sam was standing above him, feet braced wide and hands shoved up against the dragon's barrel chest, just below the neck. Holding it at bay.

And Dean wanted to yell at Sam to get the hell away, because _Sam_ was now the one very literally in the line of fire, but the dragon was just standing there instead of attacking, gleaming eyes bulging and every trace of fire snuffed out. 

The muscles in Sam's back rippled, and Sam let out a grunt of effort as he wrenched his arms away from where they'd been pressed against the dragon's chest. The dragon gave a short, mewling cry, and sank to the ground with a slow, ponderous crash.

Which was about when Dean realized that Sam's hands hadn't been on its chest; they'd been _in_ its chest.

And that the bloody chunk of flesh Sam had wrapped in his fingers was definitely a heart.

"Holy shit," Dean breathed.

Slowly, Sam turned. His arms were soaked in blood and gore up to the elbows; it dripped freely to the ground, hissing and sizzling as it went. The ragged, red-grey chunk of meat in his hand was smaller than Dean would have expected, or maybe that was the breath of Sam's fingers which suddenly looked so much larger than Dean remembered them being. There was blood splattered on Sam's shirt, and a swiftly-spreading pool of the stuff lapping at the soles of Sam's boots.

Sam's eyes, when Dean managed to drag his attention far enough up to see them, were yellow.

Sam opened his fingers and stared for a moment at the bloody heart he was holding, head cocked to the side with cat-like curiosity. A moue of distaste crossed his face and Dean watched as Sam tossed the thing away with a dismissive little sniff. Then his attention turned to Dean.

Dean resisted an entirely unfamiliar urge to flinch when Sam crouched down in front of him, doing that same unnervingly graceful head cock. Sam's gaze wandered leisurely from Dean's wide eyes down the splayed-out length of his body, then back up again.

"Sam?" Dean tried, refusing to hear any hint of a quaver in his voice.

Sam smiled, a dark, reptilian thing. "Safe," he said, with a definite air of finality. His hand came up, fingers sliding possessively along Dean's cheek. "Mine."

Dean jerked away from the touch, instinct, and felt dragon blood smear hotly across his skin in its wake. 

Sam frowned. "Dean," he said sharply, an admonishment. He reached out again and Dean, feeling more fucking lost than could ever remember being, could do nothing but sit there while Sam cupped his cheek, thumb rubbing gently across his cheekbone. This time Dean could tell that the bloody marks he was leaving were absolutely deliberate. 

"Sam." Dean's voice was a soft, shaken thing. Since when was he such a pansy? This was _Sam_. Dean fisted his hands in the grass, fighting for calm. And said again, more firmly, "Sam."

"Hmm?" Sam's expression had gone lazy and content, but Dean thought he could sense a darkness lurking beneath that easy surface. Sam's hand stayed right where it was, and Dean's skin was starting to feel uncomfortably hot, his nerves tingling unpleasantly at the burn of dragon blood.

Firming his jaw, Dean slapped Sam's hand away. "Knock it off," he said, in the most threatening tone he could manage.

Sam answered with a snarl, teeth bared in open warning. He leaned forward and Dean scrambled away with absolutely no attempt at dignity. 

"The hell are you doing?" he demanded, clambering to his feet. His hands were shaking. Fucking disgraceful. "Snap out of it, Sam. Come on."

"Rrrr," Sam said, and it wasn't, oh God, it wasn't anything like his brother ought to sound. Like any human ought to sound. Those yellow eyes blinked at Dean. 

"Sam," Dean said, and it came out angry because otherwise it would have been straight-up begging. "I swear to God, I am going to kick your ass from here to the Atlantic Ocean if you don't stop it right the fuck now. You hear me, Sammy?"

He was practically yelling by the end, but Dean couldn't bring himself to care when it made Sam pause, head cocking as though he was listening to something far away.

"Sam?" Dean tried, and he was looking Sam right in the face when his eyes flicked back to hazel. The aggression melted out of his stance and his expression went confused, then shocked, then horrified.

"Oh my God," Sam said, and fuck but he sounded about a heartbeat away from freaking out. He looked down at his hands - red, red, red - and the colour drained from his face. "Oh God, Dean, what did I-" There was something lost in his eyes when they jerked back up to Dean's face. "D-did I really…?"

"Yeah," Dean said hoarsely. He made a vague gesture towards the dragon's carcass; Sam's eyes were wide as they followed the movement. 

"Well," Sam said, after a long moment. The calm in his voice was a precarious thing. "Maybe we should go see Bobby after all."

"Yeah," Dean echoed. He felt oddly numb. "Good plan."

It wasn't that easy, of course.

Leaving aside the fact that they still didn't know where the hell Bobby had fucked off to, Impala's injuries meant that they were effectively grounded until she healed, which could take weeks. More, if Dean couldn't get proper supplies to tend to the wounds, which would only happen if they could get to a settlement _and_ no one there got trigger happy the minute they caught sight of her. 

Dean set about patching up Impala as best as he could with what he had on hand, while Sam hid the evidence of how, exactly, he'd killed that dragon. It was a messy, laborious process and Sam looked a lot like a crazy person by the time he was done. Dean manfully refrained from commenting; he suspected that Sam was one sobfest away from a full-out meltdown, which wasn't a great idea.

Eventually, they had things as sorted as they were going to get, and they set out - on foot, what fun - in the direction where Dean's map placed Pinnacle. He just hoped it was still there; it had been over a year since they'd last been out this way and a lot could change in that much time. 

All told, it could have been slower going than it was. Impala's injuries hadn't affected her walking pace down any, which made her a damn sight faster than Dean and Sam, and no natural predator was stupid enough to attack them with a dragon in tow so they were blessedly free of bear attacks and the like.

Sam was shaken and quiet. Dean flagrantly pretended he didn't share the worry. 

The bloody smears on Dean's cheeks had left angry pink blotches where they'd burned the skin. Sam didn't have a mark on him. 

Dean couldn't help but notice the way Sam kept looking at his hands, as though he thought they'd start dripping blood again if he wasn't keeping an eye on them. The gold coin had made a reappearance too; Dean saw the glint of it more than once between Sam's fingers.

Dean bit his tongue on all the things he wanted to say and kept walking.

It took them nearly three days to reach Pinnacle, by which point Dean was very sincerely wondering how anybody managed getting around by foot. Such bullshit. 

"Well, at least it's still standing," he said, looking out across the intervening space between them and the city gate. He glanced at Sam. "What do you think our reception's going to be like?"

"They've been watching us," Sam said, his attention fixed on the gate. "We're making them nervous."

"Are we indeed." Dean could work with that. "In that case, let's go make them more nervous."

Dean marched right up to the city gate with a smile on his face, Impala's reins in one hand and his gun in the other. On Impala's other side, Sam was empty handed, but no less intimidating for the lack. 

"State your business," the guard shouted when they got close enough, with a quaver in his voice that made Dean smirk.

"Name's Winchester," Dean said, because they had a reputation and he was damn well going to make use of it. "We're looking to trade for lodging and medical supplies. And the first person who looks at my dragon funny is going to be breathing through an extra hole in his neck, capisce?"

"Uh," the guard said, eyes skipping rapidly over the three of them. "I'll just… be right back."

"Stop smirking," Sam said, in an undertone, as the guard practically fled his post. "It's not a good look on you."

"Lies," Dean shot back, and 'oofed' when Sam jabbed an elbow in his ribs.

"Behave," Sam hissed, just as the guard returned with what was presumably someone in charge.

Five minutes of negotiating and posturing later, they were walking through the gate with heads held high while everyone in the immediate vicinity tried very hard to pretend they weren't staring.

All told, it was one of their more painless arrivals in a new settlement.

"I'm thinking we might as well hole up here until we hear from Bobby," Dean told Sam, once they were settled. They'd been put up in a barn on the edge of town, both because it was the only place with a door big enough for Impala to fit through and because the civilians didn't seem too keen on having them any closer than that. "Impala's going to be out of commission for at least a fortnight, and it doesn't seem like a great idea to be out hunting when you're…" Dean gestured vaguely at Sam, "-y'know."

Sam's brow creased in worry. "You sure that's a good idea? What if I," he hesitated, "hurt someone?"

It was Dean's turn to frown. "Is that gonna be a problem? I thought it was just, like, dragons and PMSing."

"Shut up." Sam whacked him on the arm, hard enough to tingle. "It's, man, I don't even know what it was. I just got so focused on needing to protect y…"

Sam cut himself off abruptly, looking frustrated, and Dean reflected that they probably should have talked about this already. No one had ever accused the Winchesters of being good at all this touchy-feely bullshit. 

"Hey, I'm not complaining about the dead dragon," Dean said. "I just need to know if you really think you're dangerous. Because I'd rather have a great big wall between us and the mighty outdoors when we can't outrun any dragon that wants to eat us, but if this is a problem…"

"No, I… no. It's fine. I'm fine." Sam bit his lip. "But, we should probably not interact with the civilians too much. Either of us. Just in case."

"Yeah, fine," Dean said, sighing a little. One of these days he would get laid again. Really he was.

"Sorry," Sam said, though he didn't sound quite genuine. 

Dean waved a dismissive hand. "Whatever. It's fine. I've got my baby to take care of anyway, don't I, gorgeous?" he asked Impala, who was looking very relieved to be able to get some rest.

She butted her tail against Dean's leg in response and he smoothed a fond hand across her scales. 

Sam stood abruptly and Dean glanced at him. "Where're you going?"

"Post office," Sam said curtly. "If we're going to be here for a while, we should put out the word that any information about Bobby should come here."

"Okay," Dean said slowly. Sam nodded and headed for the doors without another word. "Don't go apeshit on anyone!" Dean called after him. 

"Yes, mother!" Sam called back, and fled like his ass was on fire. 

Dean stared after him for a moment, then turned to Impala. "Should I be worrying?"

Impala blinked at him and huffed out a breath.

"Yeah," Dean said unhappily. "That's what I thought."

They were not quite three weeks into their enforced stopover when everything went completely tits up.

Dean, who had been spending most of his time with Impala thanks to the embargo on interacting with human beings, was distracted from his book by the realization that he hadn't seen Sam for a couple of hours. One on hand, it was ridiculous: him worrying about his 24-year old brother, who was by far the more responsible of the two of them, in the middle of a quiet little nowhere town that hadn't seen a dragon besides Impala in at least six months. 

On the other hand, this was Sam, and Dean was man enough to admit that he'd always been irrationally dedicated to keeping that kid safe, even before all this crazy shit had started happening. And Sam's twitchiness had only got worse in the time that they'd been here. He was snappish and easily distracted, and he'd been complaining of headaches. He tended to get especially nervous when Dean was out of sight, Dean had noticed, in those rare times that he left the barn for more supplies, or to stretch his legs. 

The fact that Dean couldn't remember seeing Sam lurking in the corner since at least lunch was a point of concern. 

Dean sighed. "Maybe I should put a bell on him," he suggested to Impala, who was partly ignoring him and mostly just asleep. "Or a leash." He marked his page in his book and headed outside, eyes peeled for a big hulking mass of sulky Sam.

It didn't take long. There was a ladder leaning up against the side of the barn and, at the top, he found Sam sitting on the roof with his arms draped over his knees, staring over the settlement wall at the wilderness beyond. 

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said. He sat down at Sam's side, copying his pose. "Whatcha doing up here?"

"There's something out there," Sam said, in a distant, distracted sort of voice that Dean had Dean immediately on edge. "It's been calling me."

"Calling you how?" Dean asked warily.

Sam didn't appear to notice his concern. Which either meant that Dean was a better actor than he thought - doubtful - or there was something seriously not right in the Land of Sam. "In my head. It keeps…" His voice broke. "God, it keeps getting _louder_."

"Okay, Sam, calm down." Dean gripped Sam's forearm and felt him shudder. "We'll fig-"

"Let go!" Sam yanked his arm away and Dean had a heart-stopping moment when he thought Sam's momentum was going to knock him backwards right off the edge of the roof.

"Careful!" he snapped. "Jesus Christ, are you trying to kill yo-"

The rest of the sentence clattered off into silence when Sam's head snapped up and Dean saw the yellow flare of his eyes.

"Don't," Sam said heavily, and Dean found himself putting his hands up in automatic surrender. "You shouldn't- argh!"

Sam doubled over, both hands clutching his head as his entire face creased in agony. 

"Sam!"

"Stay there!" Sam barked, when Dean moved instinctively to help. He held out a warning hand and Dean could see his fingers trembling. "Just, don't move."

It went against every fibre of Dean's being not to go over to him. "Sam," he said, hating the fact that he sounded just as fucking useless as he felt.

"I have to go," Sam said abruptly, and he was halfway down the ladder before Dean had even realized he'd moved.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean scrambled to the edge of the roof, and watched incredulously as Sam reached the ground and immediately bee-lined for the main gate without so much as a glance backwards.

Dean half-fell down the ladder in his rush to get off the roof. He hesitated briefly before running back into the barn, a mantra of 'shit, shit, shit' running on repeat in his mind.

Impala lifted her head as he dashed in.

"Sam's run off," Dean told her tersely. He tore through their packs until he came up with his rifle and a hunting dagger nearly the length of his forearm. "No, you stay here," he said, when she started to stand. "It'll be faster on foot. And I don't have time to pack everything, anyway."

Impala snorted and remained standing.

"I know you want to help, baby, but I need you to stay here, okay?" Weapons both strapped on, Dean stepped up to grip Impala's head in both hands. "I'll bring him back. Anyone gives you any trouble, you set the bastard on fire and then get the hell out of here, you got me? I'll find you, don't you worry."

Impala licked him, her tongue flicking quickly across his face, then sat down again.

Dean smiled at her. "There's my girl." He gave her one final pat before turning and racing out of the barn, only just remembering to shut the door behind him.

Dean ran out of the main gate at full tilt, and who gave a shit what the idiot standing guard thought. Luckily, Sam hadn't got far - whatever urge was gripping him apparently wasn't up to making him run - and his silhouette was easy to spot across the open landscape. 

"Sam! Fucking… wait!" 

Sam gave no indication that he'd heard him, but it didn't much matter at the speed he was walking. Dean ran after him, silently promising bloody retribution for all the shit Sam was putting him through.

"God damn it, Sam," Dean gasped, when he finally fell in at Sam's side. "You couldn't have waited five minutes? The hell is this all about?"

"It's this way," Sam said, more like he was talking to the air than answering Dean's question. His eyes were back to normal, at least. At this point, Dean was taking what he could get.

He toyed with the idea of dragging Sam back to the settlement until he was in his right mind again, but he honestly wasn't sure he'd be able to manage it without hurting him. There was a corner of his mind that wasn't sure he'd be able to manage it _at all_ , busy playing a lurid memory of Sam's hands punching their way into a dragon's chest like it was made of paper, but he ignored it. Because this was Sam. And Dean refused to be afraid of his brother. Better just to see if they could get this out of Sam's system and maybe get some answers in the process.

Besides, they were Winchesters; they didn't play it safe. 

Decision made, Dean trailed along at Sam's side, rifle in his hands and a careful distance between them that totally wasn't his doing. Sam was obviously following some directions that only he could see; each step was made without a moment's hesitation, even when his route took them into a chaotic landscape of ridges and tumbled rocks that had probably been a quarry once upon a quarter century or so ago. For his part, Dean kept his finger near the trigger and his eyes peeled for any sign of trouble.

The sun had turned the world into a rocky mass of gold and shadow by the time that Sam stopped walked.

Dean glanced around curiously. The spot they were standing in looked the same as all the rest of it. "What are we doing here?"

"Someone…" Sam's head was swiveling back and forth, like he was a dog scenting the air. "Someone was calling me."

"So you've said. Any idea who?"

"That would be me."

Dean whirled around, catching it out of the corner of his eye as Sam mirrored the movement. For a long moment, he couldn't see anything but rocks, and then a massive pair of eyes blinked at them. 

"Holy shit!" Dean said, staggering back and watching in horror as part of the rock face unfolded into what was without a doubt the biggest fucking dragon he'd ever seen in his life. Its scales were cracked and mottled, nearly the same dusty brown colour as the rocks surrounding it until a stray light from the quickly-fading sunset hit them and turned them to a glittering bronze. What the hell? Dean had never even _heard_ of a bronze dragon before. 

Instead of horns, the dragon's head had a dramatically curved ridge that spread upwards from its eyes and cheeks like a helmet. The thick bone around the eye sockets made the dragon's baleful yellow eyes appear sunken and they gleamed brilliantly amidst the shadows. There was a frightening amount of intelligence in those old, old eyes, and a cruel satisfaction that was far too human for Dean's liking. Dean had the feeling that they could see every single thought in his grubby little soul. 

They were in so much trouble.

"The brothers Winchester," that same voice said, rich with satisfaction, and Dean felt the bottom drop out of the world when he realized who - or what - had to be speaking. "How nice of you to drop by."

No human vocal chords could have produced that sound: like gargling gravel and shattering glass all at once. Which left only one, terrifying, conclusion.

Since when could dragons fucking _talk_? 

"You-" Sam sounded as shocked as Dean felt. "You can talk."

There was a sound like grinding bones and Dean realized that the creature was fucking laughing at them. 

"Figured it that out all on your own, did you?" it said dryly. "Clearly that reputation of yours is well deserved." 

"You want well deserved?" Dean asked. He was not going to stand here and be laughed at by a dragon. He lifted his rifle and pointed it at the dragon's face. "How about we see how funny you find it when I shoot you in the face?"

"Dean," the dragon said, in an admonishing tone. "Don't you think that you should have grown out of this dependence on masculine posturing by now?"

"Nope," Dean said blithely. "And it's not posturing if I can follow through, dickwad."

"Can all dragons talk?" Sam interrupted. Dean could almost see the 'yay, science!' part of his brain come online. At least he sounded like himself again.

The dragon snorted. "The human race is painfully primitive, but I think you'd have at least noticed by now if that was the case."

"So why can you?"

"Does it matter?" Dean asked. "Bet he dies just as easy as the rest of 'em." He ignored Sam's pointed look and kept his gun trained on the dragon.

"Fascinating as your contributions to this conversation are, Dean-o, I'm actually here to talk to your brother." The dragon bared a very large mouth full of very large teeth at Dean. "So why don't you be quiet now before I rip you apart?"

Sam snarled at that, a rough, angry sound that made Dean's hackles rise. "No."

"Ah," the dragon said, sounding supremely self-satisfied. "There you are at last."

"You won't touch him," Sam warned. Dean glanced over and, yeah, Sam's eyes were definitely yellow again.

Not that the dragon seemed to care. "Or what? Sorry, Sam, but you haven't got the power to stop me." A deliberate pause. "Yet."

"What do y-" Dean started, only to have one of Sam's hands land on his chest and push him a step backwards.

"Quiet," Sam growled, and only the fact that the dragon would probably find it amusing kept Dean from smacking Sam upside the head. Sam's head swiveled upwards. "Explain."

"Haven't you figured it out yet? You're one of us, Sam."

"Bullshit," Dean said, and, "Don't you fucking touch me," to Sam, who was back to growling. In an undertone, he added, "Would you get a grip already?"

The dragon was still talking. "You have a great destiny awaiting you. You are to be our leader in the final battle for the Earth."

Personally, Dean was pretty sure than anything more than what the dragons had already done was just overkill.

"Who are you?" Sam demanded.

"A surprisingly apt question, from a human. I am Azazel," the dragon said. "And I am one of Lucifer's generals."

"Lucifer?" Dean and Sam blinked at each other.

"Like in the Bible?" Dean asked. 

"Mmm. You two are on _fire_ today." Azazel flashed a smile full of teeth the length of Dean's torso. "Or maybe you will be. If you're unlucky."

"Isn't he a demon?" Sam asked, and his eyes had slipped back to normal while Dean was distracted.

" _Now war arose in heaven_ ," Azazel said, in a sonorous voice. " _And the great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world—he was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him._ The Book of Revelations. Humans really don't put enough stock in Holy Scripture these days."

"Kind of hard to believe in God when the world gets overrun by dragons," Dean said.

Azazel laughed. "The irony of that, of course, is that there was no better time. Not that He cares, of course, but still. Maybe He'd have taken notice when we got out if you lot were better worshippers."

"Got out?" Sam asked.

"Is there an echo in here or are you boys just dim? I gotta say, I was expecting you to be quicker on the uptake on this." Azazel looked at them expectantly. "Oh come now, you can't really have thought that an entire species spontaneously appeared out of thin air one day. Or did you think we'd been hiding under rocks for millennia? There are gates into Hell. And we opened them. Now we need you to finish the job, Sam."

"You keep saying that," Sam said, while Dean fought the urge to shoot the bastard in the face to make it stop talking to Sam. "What do you want with me?"

"Didn't you ever wonder how you survived when your nursery caught fire? Mommy dearest was roasted medium-well and sweet little baby Sammy didn't have a scratch on him."

"You know," Dean said, with as much condescension as he could muster. "I'm getting really sick of this bad guy monologuing."

"Stay out of it, Dean."

"And what are you going to do about it, hmm, Dean? The only reason you're still breathing is that I'm respecting baby brother's... fondness for you. It's bad manners to eat someone else's prey."

Sam stiffened.

Dean forced a scoff. "Is all the smoke in your head getting you high? I could hand this kid's ass to him without breaking a sweat."

The noise Azazel made in response sounded anything but agreement.

"How did I survive?" Sam asked, not sparing Dean a second glance. Bitch.

"Blood," Azazel said. "Dragon blood, specifically. Good for what ails you. It's been inside you," he said, voice dropping into a mesmerizing hum. "All this time. Waiting. It just needed a little… spark, to get it going. All great men are baptized in fire, Sam. It's just not usually so literal as it was in your case."

Sam stared at him, open-mouthed.

"I hope you've been enjoying the effects," Azazel continued. "There are quite a few. Although some that you're having trouble getting a handle on, I expect."

Dean's mind flashed through Sam's recent strangeness - the possessiveness, the irritability, the obsession with gold, the inhuman strength - added 'dragon' to the mix and didn't find the explanation wanting. Holy shit. 

"I can help, Sam. I can teach you how to control it. Take your place at my side and you'll-"

Dean didn't want to hear this. 

"Fuck this." He sighted down the barrel and, before Sam could stop him, squeezed off a shot right at one of those disquieting eyes.

Azazel moved faster than Dean had expected; the bullet hit the curve of his cheek plate and ricocheted harmlessly away.

"Well, that was rude," Azazel said, as though a bullet to the face was no more irritating than a mosquito. He cocked his head at Sam. "Does he always ignore you like this?"

"Dean," Sam gritted.

"We're not trying to make friends here, Sam." Dean started to aim again - he wouldn't underestimate Azazel this time - and it was his turn to growl when Sam grabbed the barrel and shoved it down. "Sam!"

"I don't think big brother's being very respectful, do you?" Azazel's tone of voice was utterly reasonable if Dean ignored the daggers hiding inside it. "You really ought to show him his place."

Dean choked on his derisive snort when Sam nodded, eyes flickering yellow as he looked Dean up and down like he was deciding which part to rip off first.

"Sam," Dean breathed, a protest or a plea - he wasn't sure. He took an instinctive step back from the dark hunger twisting Sam's features, and Sam's grip tightened on his rifle.

"Dean," he growled, hot and deep.

Dean flinched at the sound, so unlike Sam's normal voice, and was beyond relieved when the anger on Sam's face drained abruptly away, his eyes turning hazel and horrified.

Sam jerked away like he'd been burned. "I won't," he said raggedly. He spun away from Dean to glare at Azazel. "I won't."

"You will," Azazel said. The calm confidence in his voice made Dean's blood run cold. Azazel's wings rustled in a draconic shrug. "You can't fight forever, Sammy. Something's gotta give. It's only a matter of time."

"No," Sam said, but it sounded more like a prayer than an refutation. 

"Well," Azazel said then. "This _has_ been fun. But Daddy's got other jobs to do right now, so I'm gonna have to cut this short." 

"Now, wait just a-" Dean started.

Azazel's wings unfurled with a leathery snap and the gust of wind when he launched himself into the air nearly knocked Dean flat on his ass. 

"Next time you should come find me, Sammy," Azazel said, voice booming over the sound of his wings. "You'll fit right in, I promise."

Dean fired a shot at Azazel's wing; it didn't do a damn thing.

"And if you don't want another dragon to beat you to it," Azazel added, eyes flicking from Sam to Dean and back again. "I suggest you get rid of those pesky inhibitions and take what you want."

"Azazel!" Sam shouted.

Azazel let out another of those ear-bleeding laughs and then he was gone, powerful wings carrying him away.

"What. The fuck," Dean said, into the ensuing silence. Sam made a choked noise and Dean glanced at him. "Sam?"

Sam wouldn't look at him. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Is it-" He swallowed hard. "Do you think it was telling the truth?"

"No," Dean said immediately. "It's a freaking dragon! Last time I checked they're the bad guys."

"It would explain things," Sam said, as if Dean hadn't spoken. He lifted his head and offered Dean an mirthless smile. "If I'm not human."

Dean made a disgusted noise. "Don't be such a dumbass. Of course you're human. I've been watching out for you your whole life; trust me when I say you're 100% pain-in-the-ass human. Come on, let's get back to town."

"Dean," Sam said, and Dean glanced back over his shoulder to see that Sam hadn't moved an inch. "Ignoring the problem won't make it go away."

"And talking about your feelings isn't fun for either of us, princess. Is old helmet face still talking to you in your head?"

"No," Sam said after a moment.

"And are you suddenly jonesing for a diet of barbequed civilians?"

"What? No!"

"Then there's nothing to worry about."

Sam snorted. "Right. We're just going to ignore the fact that I've apparently got dragon blood inside me and I'm a danger to everyone around me."

Dean waved a dismissive hand. "Don't be so overdramatic. You're not dangerous."

"Yes, I _am_." Sam's hand clamped down on Dean's arm and Dean resisted the urge to hiss at the heavy pressure of his fingers. "I can't control it, Dean." Sam sounded horrifyingly resigned. "The anger. The hunger. It's too strong."

"Of course you can. Look at me." Dean waited until Sam's eyes met his. "You can do this, Sam. I know you can."

Sam scowled. "Since when are you a believer in the power of positive thinking? This isn't something that we can just pretend isn't happening. Christ, one suggestion from Azazel and I nearly…" Sam cut himself off before he could finish the sentence, but Dean figured he got the gist.

He affected an overdone scowl. "You really think I'm that easy to kill? Dude, I'm insulted."

Sam's expression creased with confusion, before abruptly smoothing out. "Right, yeah," he said after a moment, his voice curiously flat. "Big bad hunter. I know."

"Be a little less convincing next time," Dean said. "Now can we please go back now? I don't fancy being out here after dark."

"Fine," Sam said, and neither of them said another word for the entire trip back.

They left Pinnacle the next morning.

"What about Impala's injuries?" Sam asked, as Dean tightened the straps on Impala's saddle.

"She's fit to fly," Dean said, rubbing a surreptitious hand down Impala's side as he did so. Ideally, he would have liked to keep her grounded for another couple of days, just to make sure, but he was more concerned with getting Sam as far away from this place and Azazel, the magical talking douchebag dragon, as he could get him. 

"And where are we going?" Sam crossed his arms over his chest. "We still haven't heard back about Bobby."

"I figure we'll head back to his place and wait him out." Dean pulled the last strap tight and stepped back. "It's as good a place as any."

Sam bit his lip. "You sure? What about-"

"What about what?" Dean asked.

"Nothing." Sam shook his head.

"It's safe and familiar. Bobby will come back eventually." Dean refused to even entertain the possibility that he wouldn't. He flicked a quick glance at Sam. "And he's got that bunker in case we need it."

Dean didn't specify whether they were going to need it to keep something out or someone _in_. He was relieved when Sam let it go without comment.

"Alright. I'll go get the post office to change the message."

"Don't tell them where we're going instead," Dean said, as Sam turned to go. "Just in case."

Sam nodded. "Got it."

Dean started packing up their shit while Sam left the barn. He kept banging around for a minute until he was sure that Sam was gone, then slumped against Impala's side.

"So you're a demon, huh?" he asked her, lifting one hand to give her a stroke. "Could've fooled me."

She blinked at him innocently.

Dean chuckled. "Sorry, still not scary." He sighed heavily. "What do I do, Impala?" 

Impala butted her head against his cheek and trilled happily.

"Some help you are," Dean muttered. His eyes went without his permission to linger where Sam had just been standing. "And some help I am. Fuck."

That night, Sam ran away.

They'd been in the air for most of the day and Dean hadn't realized how exhausting that would be after several weeks of lazing around. He'd crashed hard and hadn't been aware of anything after the moment his head hit his pack until he was dragged awake by the sensation of Impala's tongue against the back of his hand.

"Wazzat?" Dean mumbled, groping automatically for the knife at his side. "'Pala?"

She nudged him urgently and Dean sat up, eyes gravitating to where Sam had set up his bedroll. 

He wasn't there.

Dean was on his feet in an instant, knife held in a white-knuckled grip as he cast about for Sam. He found him crouched down near Impala's abandoned saddle, a bulky shadow in the dark. Sam had his pack open in front of him and he looked to be filling it with foodstuffs from their supplies. It was hard to tell in the dark, but Dean would bet every bullet he had that Sam was fully dressed and ready for a day's travel.

"And where the hell do you think you're going?" Dean demanded.

Sam jumped, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the faint light from their banked fire. "To get some answers," he said. 

"Bobby will have answers."

"We don't know that!" Sam exclaimed. "Jesus Christ, Dean, no one's heard from the man in over a month! We don't even know if Bobby's ali-"

"Don't," Dean warned.

"Not saying things doesn't make them not true," Sam said. He sighed heavily. "You heard Azazel."

"I heard him saying he wants you to lead a dragon army in a glorious battle for what's left of the Earth," Dean shot back. "And unless we've changed our party line since last I checked, that's not the sort of life goal you ought to be pursuing. God damn it, Sam, I didn't drag you away from him just so you could go running back as soon a-"

"You didn't drag me anywhere," Sam snapped, showing off his new fondness for getting butt hurt about the dumbest things. "I don't need you to protect me, Dean."

"Yeah, well, you got me anyway. And I'm not letting you go off half-cocked to get your hair braided by a freaking dragon!"

"And since when," Sam said, threatening and low, "do I need your permission to do anything?"

Not that Dean was going to let that intimidate him. "Gee, I dunno, since you got all hopped up on dragon blood maybe?"

Sam let out a low, irritated hiss. "Oh, so now you believe that? Only when it's convenient for you, of course. God, Dean, you're so-"

"So what? Come on, Sam, don't leave me hanging. Tell me what you really think."

" _Shut up_ ," Sam snarled, and broke away from their staring contest to stride away a few paces. His shoulders heaved with the force of his breathing and Dean could see the way his hands were clenching and unclenching.

"Sam?" 

"I can't do this," Sam said. His voice was shaky and unsteady, all the fire of a moment ago extinguished. "Dean, I'm not strong enough."

"Bullshit." Dean yanked Sam round to look at him. His entire face was crumpled with anguish; it made Dean's heart twist. He took a deep breath and pushed on. "You're the strongest person I know, Sam. You can beat it."

The sound that Sam made was too hollow to qualify as a laugh. "This isn't a fight. It's a hostile takeover. And I've already lost. Just like the rest of the world."

"Now you're just being an idiot."

"No, you're just being stubborn." Sam took a deep breath. "I have to go, Dean. I need to know more about what's happening to me so I can learn to control it."

"Yeah, you're not going anywhere. Impala," he called, and pointed at Sam. "Sit on him for a while."

"Stop," Sam said to her, his tone of voice enough to send tremors down Dean's spine. "You're not part of this."

And Impala, Dean's beautiful girl, froze in her tracks. Dean watched as her head tilted in a brief question, and then she turned and slinked off through the trees without so much as glancing Dean's way.

"I-" Dean stared after her in open shock. "Did you just _mind whammy_ my dragon?" he demanded.

Something in Sam's expression went sheepish, but the defiant jut of his chin was anything but apologetic. "I'm not letting you keep me here, Dean. It's too dangerous."

"We'll figure something out," Dean said, starting to feel frantic. "Once we find Bobby, I'm sure he'll have some ideas for how to help you deal with your anger issues-"

"It's not about anger!" Sam snapped.

Dean glared at him. "Could've fooled me."

Sam huffed out a breath. "…sorry."

"Just… tell me what's going on with you, Sam. Please."

Sam mumbled something.

"What?" Dean asked, leaning in to hear better.

"I said I don't want to," Sam said, in a tone of voice that reminded Dean of when Sam was six years old.

"Right now, I couldn't give a rat's ass what you want," Dean said. "Come on," he added, trying for gentle and not doing a particularly good job of it. "We're in this together, aren't we? Winchesters against the world?"

Sam was shaking his head. "I can't. Not with you, I can't."

"Why not?" Dean demanded. He shifted to grab Sam's shoulder and Sam jerked away. "God damn it, Sam, why the hell not?"

"Because I can't focus on keeping the dragon instincts under wraps when I'm busy worrying that I'm going to jump you!" Sam yelled.

Dean stared. "Uh," he said, the arm he'd reached out to Sam hanging in the air between them. "What?"

Sam's chest was heaving like he'd just run a marathon. His face was heavy with emotions that Dean couldn't parse in the dark. 

"I want you," Sam said, deceptively simple. "In all the ways I shouldn't. I have for, God, it feels like forever. But ever since this… thing happened, it's like all of my instincts are hardwired into the draconic part of me. And they keep getting stronger." He met Dean's eyes steadily. Dean envied him his ability to be calm at this moment. "And it's suddenly very difficult to ignore just how easy it would be to have you."

"You… that's-" Dean's thoughts slipped through his fingers before he could catch any of them long enough to find something to say. "Are you fucking with me?"

"You weren't supposed to know." Sam shook his head. "But if this is what it takes to make you understand why I have to do this without you…"

"What, no. That's not-"

Sam sighed. "Dean. Azazel was right: I can't fight forever. Right now, I'm resisting pretty much every urge I've got and that's not… I can't do it. It's tearing me apart. I have to figure out how to balance me and the dragon." 

Dean swallowed hard. "And how do you plan on doing that?"

"Dragons are hoarders, Dean, you know that. I need something I can _own_ ," Sam said, stressing the words as though trying to convey their sheer importance. His gaze was heavy with purpose as it settled on Dean. "Someone."

Dean wasn't sure he liked the sound of this. 

"Tell me that you don't already belong to me a little bit, Dean," Sam pressed. There was something almost hypnotic in his voice and it was making Dean feel dizzy. "Look me in the eye and tell me honestly that you wouldn't submit to me if I told you to. That you don't submit already, without even noticing."

Dean's instinctive 'fuck you, no' stuck in his throat - because it wasn't a lie, but neither was it true enough for him to be able to give it voice.

A satisfied growl rumbled from deep in Sam's chest. "Mine." He took a step forward.

"Now wait a minute," Dean started, but it was too late. 

Sam sprang towards him, big hands curling around his hip and behind his neck as he pulled Dean into a kiss that didn't take no for an answer. Dean's mouth opened on an instinctive gasp and Sam took immediate advantage; his tongue snaked between Dean's lips, fucking into his mouth and claiming every inch of space for its own. Sam was a damn good kisser, Dean decided faintly, head spinning as Sam stole his breath away with every sweep of his tongue. Sam's hands were confident and possessive, moving Dean's body to suit Sam's needs and gripping hard enough that Dean would find bruises later.

Dean's own hands twitched weakly where they'd landed on Sam's shoulders; later, he would wonder why it hadn't even occurred to him to push Sam away, but right now he couldn't do anything but hang on.

Dean was feeling light-headed by the time Sam released his lips to trail a series of burning kisses down the length of his neck. He groaned in confusion and unexpected pleasure, squirming in Sam's iron grip. Sam's mouth was merciless as it worried at the juncture of Dean's shoulder, drawing blood to the surface until it was more pleasure-edged pain than the other way around. 

Then suddenly everything stopped and Dean found himself swaying drunkenly on his feet, head spinning and body cold without the blanketing too-hot heat of Sam against him.

"That's why," Sam said, roughly. He looked wild and terrifying: hair disheveled, lips slick and swollen, breath rapid, eyes hot. Dean licked his lips, disbelieving, and a shudder rocked through Sam's frame; Dean got the feeling that it was taking everything Sam had in him to maintain the distance between them. "That's why I can't stay. I'll force you, Dean. I'll break you and I don't want to, God, I don't, but a part of me wants to see it happen, wants to _make_ it happen. And I can't. I can't do that to you. So I need answers."

"And you really think the freaking dragons are going to help?" Dean demanded, because yelling about this was miles better than addressing the fact that every nerve in his body was lighting up like a Christmas tree. "News flash, Sam. They're going to brainwash you into becoming their general or whatever the fuck so you'll destroy the last of the human race, or else you'll refuse and they'll kill you. Do not pass GO, do not collect $200."

"Dean," Sam said, and it was more of a sigh than a word.

"Together?" Dean offered, and even to him it sounded like begging. 

Sam's eyes were fixed on Dean's neck and Dean belatedly realized that he'd brought one hand up to press against the hickey that Sam had left there. Dean couldn't for the life of him couldn't have said whether he was trying to hide it or feel it more clearly.

Sam shook his head. "I can't stay. I'm sorry, Dean."

"You-" Dean tried, and swore when Sam lunged for him, one arm already swinging.

Pain sparked behind Dean's eyes and the world went black.

Dean woke up tied to a tree.

"Son of a _bitch_ ," he said, with feeling. He'd been lashed to the tree trunk some fifteen feet up, legs straddling a branch as thick as his torso. And, yeah, Dean appreciated not having been left on the ground where just anything could have wandered by and eaten him, but this position was not doing the family jewels any good. 

The combination of the overhead canopy and the limited amount of light filtering through the air made it hard to know what time it was, but Dean's internal clock told him that Sam's head start was probably at least half a day long already.

Dean took a moment to work through every swear word he knew. It still didn't seem like enough.

Experimentally, Dean wriggled his hands, trying to find the knots in the rope. No luck. And Dean didn't have the mobility to get to the knife strapped to his thigh.

God, he could easily die of dehydration if he didn't find a way down, and soon. And it wasn't like some random forest in the middle of nowhere had a lot of human traffic going through.

"Impala!" he called, and it sounded desperate even to his own ears. 

Thankfully, it was only a handful of moments later that familiar footsteps filled the air and Impala's face appeared through the leaves.

"Thank God," Dean breathed. "You gonna help me get down, baby?"

It took a couple of false starts, but Impala eventually managed to rake her claws down the rope and cut Dean loose. He wasted no time in climbing down, groaning at the pain in his legs.

"I'm going to kill him," he told Impala. "Just you watch."

Impala looked unimpressed.

"Whatever." Dean decided that pacing was a perfectly acceptable way to stretch out his sore muscles, which was just as well because he didn't think he could sit still if he tried.

Sam had kissed him. 

Sam wanted him. In a Biblical sense. 

Maybe even loved him; this was Sam he was talking about, after all. Dean wasn't sure how anybody could be so stupid as to fall in love with a fuck-up like him, but Sam hadn't exactly been showing good decision-making skills recently, so who the fuck knew.

And sure, the dragon blood was clearly behind the whole growly 'mine, mine, mine' cockblocking routine, but Sam had said he'd felt like this - whatever 'this' was - even before that. That he'd wanted Dean for a long time, if Dean had understood him right. 

So he'd left to make sure that Dean was out of groping distance or whatever, even though going off to face Azazel on his own was clearly the dumbest thing he could possibly have done.

And how the hell did Dean feel about this?

Dean brushed his fingers over Sam's mark on his neck. The skin was tender to the touch and Dean hissed a little at the contact. The memory of Sam's mouth against his neck, Sam's body hot and hard against his, filled his mind and Dean flushed. He remembered feeling overwhelmed, dominated and, somehow, cherished.

He thought about the phantom memory of the kiss that had started it and his cheeks grew hot.

"I'm not in love with Sam," Dean said aloud, because it needed to be said.

Because he wasn't. Not the way Sam might have been in love with him. And he wasn't in lust with him either. He hadn't been chubbing up thinking about Sam's hands or his mouth or his dick. He'd never have dared.

The problem was that he couldn't really consider his feelings for Sam platonic, either.

Because Sam was Sam. And Sam was everything. Which was so much more frightening than a simple thing like being in love. 

"Fuck," Dean muttered, finally giving up on the pacing to slump down in the dirt. 

Fact #1: Dean needed Sam. In whatever way he could get him, as pathetic and codependent as that was.

Fact #2: Sam couldn't be allowed to do this on his own.

Fact #3: Sam had left because he didn't want to make Dean do something he'd regret.

Fact #4: Dean had never in his life regretted Sam. And that included one very unexpected kiss.

Really, it all added up to one logical solution. Amazing that Sam hadn't figured it out.

And there was almost certainly a sexuality crisis looming somewhere on the near horizon - Dean was very carefully not thinking about the 'i' word that summed up this whole situation - but it was going to have to wait.

Because, right now, Sam needed Dean. And Dean had long since given up angsting over how much he needed to be needed by Sam. 

_Next time you should come find me,_ Azazel had said. There was only one place that Dean could think of that would be the headquarters for a demon-dragon army. Especially within walking distance for Sam.

"Come on, baby," he said to Impala, climbing to his feet to begin the task of packing up the supplies that Sam had left him. "We're going to go get Sammy."

He caught up with Sam about 20 miles within the border of Wyoming.

"You fucking bastard," he said.

Sam looked torn between running away as fast as his legs could carry him and eating Dean whole. "You shouldn't be here," he settled on, as Dean slid off Impala's back and onto the road.

"Tell me something I don't know, genius." Dean stomped up to Sam, feeling every inch of his skin crawling with the knowledge of just how fucked they were if any dragons realized they were here. "So how about you get on Impala without throwing a bitch-fit and we can have this fight somewhere where we're less likely to get eaten in the middle."

"God damn it, Dean!" Sam hissed in an undertone. "Why can't you do what you're told for once in your life?"

"Because this is a stupid plan. And I make it a point never to listen to stupid plans."

"Oh, and I suppose you have a better- mmph!"

It wasn't the best kiss, Dean had to admit; he'd knocked Sam off-balance when he'd fisted his hands in his shirt and pulled, and there was no room for finesse in the firm, close-mouthed press of their lips, but it did the job. It only lasted for a few seconds before Dean was stepping back.

Sam blinked at him in a rare moment of absolute bafflement, and Dean coughed.

"That's my better plan," he said, and willfully ignored the place inside him that wanted to feel shy about it. Dean Winchester and shy did not belong in the same realm of existence.

"Dean, what are yo-" Sam cut himself off abruptly, and it only took Dean a moment to recognize the ominously familiar creak of leather wings.

"Shit," Dean said. He looked to Sam. "How do you want to play this?"

Sam raised an eyebrow at him. "Since when do you follow my lead?"

"Since this is your goddamn fault in the first place. The least I can do is be here to watch your back when you're trying to get yourself killed."

"Gee, thanks," Sam said. He considered for a moment. "Stay out of their range. I might get… irrational if you get hurt."

"Gotcha." Dean unslung his rifle and waited with Sam while the dragons came closer.

There were three of them, reds, and normally Dean would have been swearing up a storm, but Sam was calmly in control as he unsheathed his knives and braced his feet wide.

"Land," he said, his voice taking on that deep resonance of command that he'd used the night before. And then, "Stay."

All three dragons touched ground and froze in their tracks. Sam's grin was decidedly draconic as he leaped to attack.

Dean took pot shots from afar; the dragons were clearly trying to shake off Sam's compulsion, but they couldn't move fast enough to avoid Dean's bullets or the deadly sweep of Sam's blades. It was over in no time at all, and Dean had to admit that it was going to make hunting a hell of a lot easier if Sam could get a handle on these new skills of his.

"Dean!" Sam strode over to him, liberally splashed with blood and his expression hot. He looked about three seconds away from pinning Dean to the floor, which Dean wasn't sure he was quite ready for. Especially not when there would be more where those came from.

"We have to go, Sam," Dean said, and it was a struggle not to make it sound like an order. He was a bossy son of a bitch, so sue him. Sam's fingers stroked against Dean's cheek in a familiar gesture that made Dean's pulse jump. "I need you to come back now. Sam. Sammy!"

There was a pause, and then Sam jolted back.

"God, Dean, I'm sorry. Fuck, I knew this was going to happen. This is why you can't be-"

"Sam," Dean said, and waited until Sam met his eyes before continuing, in the most serious tone he could muster. "You're my brother. And I'm here for you. No matter what."

Sam's eyes flashed a hungry yellow; Dean fought the urge to flinch. 

"You shouldn't say that," Sam said, in a voice that shook with repressed emotion. "I can't-"

"Yes, you fucking can." Deliberately, Dean cupped Sam's cheek with one hand. "You need me to let you in? Be something you can own? Well, here I am. We'll figure this out together."

Sam looked stricken. "You can't… _sacrifice_ yourself like that, Dean. I won't let you."

Dean huffed out a breath. "I'm not sacrificing anything. I… look. I can't promise that I won't freak out about this later, but this is not a 'take one for the team' situation. I mean, fuck, you didn't hear me complaining last night did you?"

"I didn't really give you the chance," Sam said, but there was a touch of brightness in his voice that hadn't been there a moment ago. He stared at Dean, looking fascinated. "I don't think I've ever seen you blush before."

"Shut up," Dean said, hating the way it made his cheeks prickle more. "And don't you even pretend that I couldn't have stopped you if I'd wanted to."

Sam frowned. "I'm stronger than you now. I could have-"

"But you didn't," Dean insisted. "You're still you, dumbass. And I am not talking about this for one more second, so I hope you've had your fill of warm and fuzzies for today because I am fucking fed up." 

"Romantic."

"Stuff it." Dean cocked his head at Sam. "You ready to go?"

Sam hesitated. His gaze skittered over the dead dragons, then down to the mess he'd made of his clothes. "You sure about this?" His eyes returned to Dean.

The hickey on Dean's neck throbbed under Sam's intense gaze. It was a brand, a compact on a new future for them. It was permanent, real and fucking scary. It was Sam.

Luckily, only one of those things mattered.

"Wouldn't have asked if I wasn't," Dean said, with all the conviction he possessed. "Let's get out of here already. This place gives me the heebie jeebies."

"The 'heebie jeebies'?" Sam parroted, with a tentative smile that warmed Dean right down to his toes. "What are you, twelve?"

"You know that would make you a pedophile," Dean said, and laughed at the horrified expression on Sam's face. They could do this, he realized, as Sam's hand wrapped gingerly around his wrist, affectionate as well as possessive. Be themselves and still be… this. 

And all the dragons in the world had better fucking run, because if they'd been formidable before, now they were going to be unstoppable. They always had been better together.

~fin

**Author's Note:**

> [Art Post](http://soserendipity.livejournal.com/35485.html)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dragon!Impala Art (Deviantart link)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3235433) by [Dreamer_of_Improbable_Dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamer_of_Improbable_Dreams/pseuds/Dreamer_of_Improbable_Dreams)




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